


Seasons Change, But Love Only Grows

by AU Mer-Maid (neonstardust)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Don't Let The Tags Fool You This Is Safe For Work, Established Relationship, Kinktober 2019, Nostalgia, Post Canon - Aged Up Character(s), Post-Canon, Roommates, Size Difference, Wholesome Safe For Work Content In My Kinktober? Heck Yeah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-28 03:30:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21130049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neonstardust/pseuds/AU%20Mer-Maid
Summary: Every room has one area where stuff is dumped just to get it out of the way when in a rush. For them, it's the closet.Crushed by the threat of spring cleaing, Shirabu faces down against the monstrous area, finding not only clutter, but memories hidden deep inside.





	Seasons Change, But Love Only Grows

**Author's Note:**

> Kinktober Day 21 - Prompt: Size Difference

Hands on his hips, Yahaba glares, unrelenting. A mask covers the lower half of his face, but Shirabu can picture the frown beneath it. “Spring cleaning is important,” he says.

Leaning back in his chair, Shirabu thinks of all the more enjoyable things he could be doing besides cleaning, like staring at the ceiling or watching the already dry paint on their walls dry out a little bit more as he waits for the world to decompose.

Yahaba brandishes a cleaning rag, and Shirabu reluctantly climbs out of his chair. “This is stupid.”

“_important_.”

Shirabu rolls his eyes. “I’ll do the restroom.”

“Yeah right. Last time you said that, you just took a bath for an hour.” Hands on Shirabu’s shoulders, he pushes him to the bedroom. “I did the bathroom already. You clean up here, and I’ll finish the kitchen.”

“Spring cleaning is a trope created by the media,” Shirabu argues.

With a tight smile, Yahaba hands him a bucket of cleaning supplies. “I’m throwing out everything that’s just lying around, and that includes you if you don’t get to work.”

Leaning against the doorframe, he watches Yahaba saunter off. Cheery music plays from the radio. Feather duster in hand, Yahaba pulls his mask up and spins to the song, dusting along the tabletop.

His enthusiasm is both adorable and disgusting. Shirabu glares at the bedroom floor. He keeps the place neat, storing the volleyball gear in the designated volleyball corner and the books put away on the messy bookshelf. It’s organized and tidy, although not immaculate. They shouldn’t need anything more than that.

The curtains flutter in the breeze. A candle burns on top of the dresser next to a stack of volleyball magazines and an even larger stack of manga. Dragging his feet, he makes his way to the closet where a small pile of useless objects has accumulated.

The first item he picks up is a shirt given to him by Semi. Without hesitation, he throws it into the trashcan. Next, he picks up a voodoo doll of Tendou he made in high school. He throws that away, too, but not before hitting its head against the wall a few times, just in case.

Sitting down on the floor, Shirabu digs through old, lost homework assignments and a participation medal for an elementary school spelling bee. He smoothes out crumpled up papers, finding old pictures he’d drawn and songs Yahaba had written. Setting the later aside, he throws the rest mercilessly in the trash where they belong.

“Are you throwing out my stuff?” Yahaba asks from the other room.

“Yes,” Shirabu lies.

“Spring is the best time of year for mummifying the bodies of bad boyfriends,” Yahaba sings.

Ignoring him, Shirabu pulls out three right sneakers, all of them missing their left counterparts. He doesn’t know what this means. Deciding not to think about it, he throws them besides the trashcan in case he finds the matching other halves later.

Yahaba’s voice drifts through the apartment. Tilting his head back, Shirabu listens as it dips and rises. Years of being roommates have taught him that he has a versatile voice. He can keep up with all the fast songs the radio throws at him, but late at night, when the insomnia kicks in and Yahaba swaps out their coffee for mugs of hot chocolate, his voice drifts to a melodious lullaby, calming the storms in Shirabu’s head.

It’s the same reason he’s not surprised about the sudden cleaning kick. Yahaba pulled the same stunt every spring since they graduated university, and back when they shared a dorm room, he had a smaller scale version consisting of cleaning out the refrigerator and sanitizing any surface within touching range.

It’s a stupid tradition. Even if they need to get rid of the clutter every now and again. Even if it gives Shirabu something more productive to do than decompose in the overstuffed armchair. Even if it did make the place seem a little bit brighter, the air a little bit cleaner, or if it lifted the fog swirling in his head.

The pile dwindles down to crumpled up shirts and battered sneakers. Shirabu sorts them quickly, tossing out anything with stains or tears. The shoes he lines up along the bottom of the closet. He hopes it will stop them from dumping random items here again, but deep in his heart he knows the effort is futile.

Something purple catches his eye.

Grabbing it from the far corner of the closet, Shirabu picks up his old high school jacket. The sleeves dangle uselessly, but when he holds it to his chest, they don’t stretch down far enough. The bottom hem that once floated just above his knees now touches his hips. Without trying it on, he can already tell there’s no way it would fit him now.

“Wow.” Shirabu knew he’d grown since then, but to see the size difference up close is shocking.

“You say something?” Yahaba leans through the doorway, his head nearly bumping against it. He’s grown, too, over the years. Annoying long limbs. A broad chest framed by ridiculously powerful shoulders. A heart much too big for one single person.

“No.” Carefully, Shirabu slides the jacket onto a hanger. “Nothing at all.”

Maybe change isn’t always a bad thing, Shirabu grudgingly admits, even if it involves a little spring cleaning every now and again.


End file.
